76th Hunger Games
by FictitiousFantasyxx
Summary: Peeta and Katniss watch the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games with their children, in which the Capitol's children are sacrificed. *SPOILER ALERT* If you DID NOT finish/read Mockingjay, please DON'T read this. There's numerous spoilers. Thanks for reading! :
1. Chapter 1

The flame that I am has been extinguished, I awake with skin that is just growing back, and hair that never really will. I often repeat the same sentences to try to hold on to my sanity before it runs off again, and I'm left with a fancy house but a hopeless reality.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. They put me back in the Hunger Games. I survived. A lot of people didn't because of their association with me. District 13 is alive and thriving. I was their Mockingjay, the District's hope that we could win the rebellion against the Capitol. We did..._

The list trails on and on and I keep repeating it softly under my breath so as not to wake Peeta. It's one of the first nights my nightmares haven't sent him flying off the edge of the bed, and I can't help but think he deserves whatever sleep he can get. He's even gone so far as to put a small bed down there to cushion the fall, but we both refuse to sleep with out each other. He's the only other person alive I feel withstood the same terrors I did.

What was it that woke me this night? As part of my treatment for recovery, I'm supposed to analyze my dreams, especially the ones that send me screaming and thrashing. I suppose I have President Snow to thank for that, and the new president to think for his rotting corpse. I favor the latter.

Oh. It was President Snow's rotting corpse in my dream. Even in death, his eyes bulged and he beckoned me closer, closer with one pus-filled finger. I was in a tomb, and the sound and smell of night was engulfing me. I took steps, feeble and small, towards him, readying an arrow to finally end his misery. In the dream, I shot him over and over with an endless supply of arrows, but they broke or stop inches from his heart and fell to the ground. Every arrow refused to pierce him, and in one last futile attempt, I shrieked, unsheathed a knife and bounded with all the strength I could, and plunged it in his heart. With his last dying breath and the smell of roses everywhere, he whispered fiercely in my ear, although his voice rebounded across the walls and sounded ominous,

"Let the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games begin!"

I feel numb with terror, and I _need _to wake Peeta, but if I do it's like accepting defeat. Even in death, President Snow terrifies me.

The scary thing is, President Snow is right, in a way. Today is the reaping of the Capitol children. I steal a glace at the clock, partially blocked by Peeta's shoulder. They'll be in the Capitol's equivalent of town square, lining up, terrified. Each hoping it's not their name that's called.

I get a sudden pang in my chest that demands I either call off the thought or throw up for the next few hours. I know when I was vengeful I agreed to the idea, in the firm belief that after all this, it was only fair. But it's not fair. The Capitol's people are vapid and shallow after being catered to for the majority of their lives. Their like pets. I know it sounds weird, but after seeing my prep team, I started to wonder if it was even the Capitol's fault.

Even if it was, it shouldn't be continued. It took Prim's death to get me to see that. I miss her so much, more than I miss my mother.

It took me ages to understand. Understand why she couldn't get up in the morning, or be there for Prim and I. Even more so, why she can't come back. Being in 12, the air reeks of death, everywhere I go I see it. It lingers and taints our lives, and I worry for when my children are going to find out about everything. Including Peeta's and my own involvement in all of this.

Peeta. I reach out for him, and snuggle closer in his chest. None of this has been easy for him. He lost his entire family in the bombing of 12 and had no one to come back to. But I know I can't turn to him for help with this; this moral problem with the continued Hunger Games. I need someone who will fight back, not agree with me.

I slowly peel the comforter off my body, sweat sealing me under it, and trapping me with heat. I'm careful not to wake Peeta as I kiss him on the forehead and slip out of bed.

The placement of the two phones in our house work to my advantage. There's one in between Finnick's and Primrose's room, and another in the study.

Even though I feel like I physically cannot enter the study, I do. The air reeks of roses even though I know it's only in my head. It's overwhelming and I struggle to continue to walk, crawl if I have to, to the phone in the center of the room.

When I reach it, I dial the one person I want to talk to more than anything, to know he's truly okay. I feel crazy when I think that the same person mumbling what I need to hear has been kissing another pair of lips, loving someone else. I know I burned that bridge, and that I love Peeta indefinitely more than I ever could Gale, but I miss him terribly.

I know this will hurt Peeta inside, that pain never really fades, but I'll try to make it quick. I need someone to counteract my moral qualms about the nearing Hunger Games, about children's deaths being aired in front of my _own _children's faces. Maybe it came with being a parent, but I'm sure if another Hunger Games airs I will finally go, and I don't think they have enough medication to bring me back.

"This is Gale." I breathe a momentous sigh of relief, not knowing how much I needed to hear his voice. After we won the rebellion, it became clear I needed Peeta more than anyone else. What I didn't know was that in making that decision, I'd lose a friend.

It's true that all Gale and I had in common was hunting, long afternoons spent in the Meadow defying Peacekeepers and laughing. I miss those days.

"Gale! It's Katniss. I... I don't feel right, about the Hunger Games.."

"Katniss... you called me to tell me that after being a Tribute two times, you don't think children should be sacrificed? I'm surprised." He says in a spate of sarcasm. It cuts, but I know he's about to give me what no one else will.

The truth is, I'm no longer a respected citizen of, well anywhere. I'm Mentally Disoriented, as the bracelet around my wrist proudly declares, and if I try to speak my opinion to anyone in District 13, I'm usually sedated. I'm glad for the respites from the constant grief, from the memories that swim before eyes every time I try to sleep, or smile, or laugh. "Katniss, are you still there? Look, I'm sorry. The truth is, we both _know_ the Hunger Games are the right thing to do. After all _you've_ been through, isn't right?"

"How could it be? Their _children, _Gale. I didn't know that was a crime!"

"A crime?"

"They're being sent for execution while their friends and parents watch."

"It's so horrible, right? So horrible. Children dying. We've _**never **_seen that before, right Katniss? My, the way you're acting, you'd suspected you never murdered one!"

I'm stung. Gale's words landed right where they were supposed to, and I'm at a loss for words. I succumbed to it, to save Peeta's and my own lives. Nothing more. But the truth is, I have someone's blood on my hands. Actually, if you get into the logistics of it, I have hundreds of peoples blood on my hands. All of the sudden, I want to put the phone down and curl up in a cupboard or shoe cabinet and cry. I don't want to have to be a mother or a wife or even a person. I just want this to end. Instead I scream back at him.

"Gale, you're mighty innocent yourself. It's not like you're responsible for my sister's death or anything."

I want to put the phone down, but I don't. I hold it, and glare and wait. It's all I'm good at anymore. Waiting. I'm a bloodied soldier and I start to wonder why so many people sacrificed themselves for my life.

"Of course, throw that up to me, Katniss. What about President Coin?"

This wasn't supposed to happen. I stagger to the floor and hold the phone close to my chest, as though if I smother it with my still beating heart, the words won't be true. We could take it all back, and I could curl up in bed with Peeta and hold myself until morning.

The truth is I talked to President Snow before I was supposed to execute him. It was my last piece of unfinished business before I could accept death and everyone would give up their Mockingjay. People would finally stop taking the bullet for me, and I could embrace it like no one let me.

A nasty truth unfurled in that rose garden, and I was forced to face it. President Coin would be no better leader than Snow, enforcing the Hunger Games on Capitol children, to avoid retaliation. Sounds familiar, right?

I couldn't do it. I couldn't kill Snow when I realized Coin would be the next enemy. It became clear when she issued they dropped the bombs.

Gale teamed up with a previous victor, Beetee and worked to create bombs they played off human emotions. A version of such bomb was dropped in the form of a silver parachute on Capitol children. They exploded twice. In between explosions, my sister rushed in with a team of rebel doctors to help where they could. That's when the second explosion happened.

I'm struck with the terrible pain of remembrance, watching my sister go up in flames, become a smoldering pile of ashes that was only a pawn in Coin's games.

When someone was playing off you, manipulating you to their advantage, another person was adjacent, pulling strings when they could, and manipulating you to their cause. I began an awkward dance of jerky motions, helping the rebels here, unknowingly helping Coin rise to leadership, helping Snow control his regime, letting everyone who could play off my emotions.

Another horrible thing that ensued was, even without Coin, most of the rebel leaders voted towards the Hunger Games. Including me.

I wonder if, seventy-six years ago, someone stood in the middle of a crowded room, and held a vote. Even if they did, I know what followed.

"Coin was just as evil as Snow. You know that, Gale. Something else, somewhere inside yourself, you know it's not fair to force someone to go through that. It's a custom, yeah, but it _needs _to end. If it doesn't, seventy-some years down the road... look around you, Gale, finish the thought."

I looked out one of the numerous windows in my house in the Victor's Village, and down the hill into the rest of 12. People began coming in after the rebels won and making homes out of ashes, but it's nothing like what it was. Mass graves cover inch to inch of the Meadow and its here where my children spend their afternoons. Playing and laughing, like Gale and I once did, oblivious to the evil that once was, and was swinging back full force. It was no longer directed at us, the victims, but at the Capitol.

"Katniss, I'm sorry, but you lost your sister, victors and tributes who were allies, nearly Peeta, most of the residents of 12, pretty much your mother, _so _many people _died _for this cause, doesn't that mean anything? I.. I can't argue into the morning about this. You sound like you need sleep, and I'm sure Peeta can comfort you. Why did you even turn to me?"

"I needed to hear your voice; I needed to hear that my thoughts are wrong. You've only assured me how right I am."

"Mommy? Why have you been screaming?" I turn and see Rose standing in the doorway of her room. She's in her pink nightie, with her dark hair in a braid. She has her father's blue eyes, and just looking in them I feel like everything is okay.

Her presence has brought me back into the world where I'm a mother and wife. I gently place the phone down, and hug her tightly.

It took Peeta ages to convince me to have them. He wanted them and I knew they was no threat they would go in the Hunger Games, but still I was scared. The very remembrance of all those children being whisked away from helpless parents terrified me.

I suddenly feel horrible that I've awoken her.

"Sorry honey. I was just talking to a friend. Did I awake you?"

"No, my television did. It suddenly blared up and starting show feed of this... of this... sad thing." She didn't really inherit eloquence from her father like expected. Sad thing is probably the most realistic expression she has to offer for describing the reaping.

"It's okay. You want to go to the dining room and I'll fix you breakfast?" The dining room is the only room in our house that doesn't have a television besides the bathroom and kitchen.

She immediately beams and runs in there. I stand up straight and find myself smiling. I feel remorseful after my own lousy childhood and vow hers won't be the same.

"Can we have pancakes, Mommy? I want pancakes. Pancakes!" I giggle helplessly to myself. She's probably already search for syrup, ready to douse anything and everything in it.

"Pancakes sound delicious. I mean, if you're not thinking about how we eat them yesterday, and the day before that. Oh, and the day before that." Peeta takes me by surprise, sleep still clinging to his eyes, and drowsiness emanating off of him. He wraps an arm around me and holds me close enough to feel his heart beating. I do. It's steady and there, besides countless nightmares that it's not.

It took two Hunger Games and a rebellion for me to see how much I love and need him.

Suddenly, all I need in the world is to stand right here, against his chest, and the Hunger Games will vanish, and ghosts will live again, and everything will really, truly be okay. I know this, and he does, finally it's him that lets go.

He holds me at a distance, studying my features. I try not to portray anything, the call to Gale this morning, my mixed feelings about the reaping, the nightmare. He has enough on his plate as it is.

I know what he wants to ask me than anything, what we _need _to talk about, but instead he asks,

"If I beg, and get on my knees, can I have eggs instead of pancakes? I promise I'll devour them. You're efforts will not be wasted." A smile reaches his lips. He's teasing me; we both know he's the chef in our relationship, probably the last in town.

The truth is, if my daughter had to eat _my _pancakes, she would quickly lose her hunger for them. I can only manage bacon and eggs, and little more.

"Sure, love. Let there be eggs." He kisses me quickly before we both head in the kitchen holding hands. One of the only rooms where I can avoid the reaping today, but that dreadful feeling will always be in my heart.

I know it's only a matter of time before we have to face it together, and hold our children's hands and explain what the Games are. We'll have to watch them, at least for a little bit, and my children will have to see death. But for now, we're safe inside our kitchen together, frying eggs and mixing batter.

***I know it seems like a time lapse, but it's not. The reason it's the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games is because they discontinued them for a bit when the last stragglers against the rebellion were wiped out, districts were rebuilt, etc. There is actually twenty-two years between the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games and the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games, in which Katniss has her first child, Rose, who's seven, and her second child (who came two years later), Thorn, who's five. [Rose is short for Primrose, and Thorn is short for Hawthorne, which is Gale's last name. So you know.***

** *If you enjoyed reading this, or really didn't, please leave a review. I would really appreciate critique and I don't own any of the characters or places, or well anything, involving this story. If you have any constructive criticism, please let me know.***


	2. Chapter 2

"We're going to have to be strong." Peeta says as he begins working his hands through the dough, softly kneading raisins in the bread. I couldn't agree more, but I don't tell him that. I'm tired of being strong; I want to collapse in his arms as soon as the actual Games start airing.

We've kept our children pretty well guarded. I don't fall apart until I'm in Peeta's company alone. It's then that we get to be ourselves and one of us, whoever's the stronger of the two at the time, whips out the book we made with Haymitch, and we solemnly flip through the pages and mourn.

The truth is, I'm grateful for Rose and Thorn. They're the loving memory of people I lost along the way, they're beautiful children who can make me smile, and they're the very essence of serenity. With them, Peeta and I have managed a sense of normalcy that's analogous to before our first Hunger Games. We can be happy and watch humanity rebuild around us, until we gain the courage to let them have at it.

"I know. I hope they don't hate me." With that statement is the unspoken agreement that when we tell them, we will keep the pain at the frayed edges of our mind, sparing them what we can while we relaying what truth we can subject them to.

Peeta stops kneading for a minute, and looks out the window.

"Why would they hate you, Katniss? You saved lives, including my own."

"I know I did, but what about all the people who sacrificed themselves for me? All those _people _who were thrown aside like... like _trash_. Their bodies were strewn in the streets, piled high. They all died, because of _me_."

With that sentence would've came the full realization at just how true it were, but I'm over the initial shock. I only feel remorse, shot in my being as though it were in a syringe by a man who meant well.

As soon as I became the Mockingjay, it was as though I was a savior. I gave hope to those who needed it because I wore a costume with wings. I kept looking at bodies as though they were lives meant to be spared, as though I were above it.

Every time I looked at someone, I thanked God it wasn't Gale or Prim or my mother, but I didn't really value most of the lives as who the people actually were. I felt relief that my loved ones were spared, but no sorrow for the one's that weren't.

"Katniss, it would've happened without you. The slain would have been an exorbitant amount more if you hadn't been there. The outbursts started before you came along. You gave them a leader! Someone to look up to, to follow! Don't blame yourself for people that died for the cause, some of them chose to."

He holds my hands and looks into my eyes with his own. Peeta only sees the best in me, not the blood and fragments of myself, broken like glass. He truly loves me.

"How am I going to explain all this?"

"We're going to do it together." He says, and I know he's right. He's never left me, even when all I cared about was myself; even when I was asleep in a tree above him, and he couldn't sleep amidst the unconscious bodies of the Careers.

I turn to the eggs, even though I feel like I should thank Peeta for helping me, for getting me through everything. But I can't. It feels like it will take all the strength I have, and I need to put on a smile.

Peeta's cooking three things at once, switching between bread, pancakes, and bacon, and it all smells delicious. I feel extremely unconfident standing next to him, with only a pan of eggs, which I think are burning but I can't really tell.

The truth is, before the Hunger Games, I was never the chef in the family, or the healer, or much of anything. I stayed together for Prim because she needed me to; I hunted and signed up for tessarae because we would've starved without it, but in the presence of the sick and dying, I was hopeless. I couldn't stare death in the eye like so many teary family members, and only now can I see how they withstood it. They needed to.

Cautiously, I take the pan off the stove, before Peeta whips around and quickly turns off the burner, saving my arm from yet another scar. I can tell by how tight his smile is he _really _wants me out of the kitchen, but I'm not ready to face anyone else yet. Especially not my ravenous seven-year old daughter.

"Mommy! Where are the pancakes? My belly says it wants pancakes!" Rose whines from the dining room. Peeta and I look at each other but suppress giggles. No pancakes are the most stressful thing in her life right now.

"Well if you're sure you no longer need my cooking expertise, I'll go tend to the beasts." I kiss Peeta quickly and hold his glance before he quickly turns back to flipping pancakes.

I debate whether or not I should take a quick bath, and decide to just go ahead and change. I put on a clean grey tee and a pair of jeans and braid my hair before awakening Thorn. He sleeps late and Peeta and I naturally don't complain. We wouldn't wish our insomnia on anyone, especially a child.

His room is just down the hallway from ours, but I find myself standing over his bed, watching him sleep. Although I share the bond with Rose that similar features seem to bring, parenting Thorn has been an entirely different experience. He looks so much like Peeta with his eyes closed; I often stop and watch him. I wonder what Peeta's childhood was like; growing up in a secure household with unlimited food, but it feels wrong to ever ask him. I don't hold it against him; he's more good-natured than I ever was.

"Thorn, wake up please. It's time for breakfast." I say it so softly I hardly hear it myself. I'm mystified by his sleeping body, as though slumber holds him protectively in its arms.

Of course, he awakens. He's such a light sleeper it's a wonder night holds him so, yet familiar. Oh. Prim used to sleep like that.

It sounds silly, but I get teary over the silliest things when it comes to Prim. She had such a bright future as a doctor, something she could never have gotten if we stayed in 12, and then it was taken away by the brutality of war.

I shake the thought, and tousle Thorn's hair. He inherited the golden, silky quality his father has; expect his is much lighter and fluffier.

"Time for breakfast! Come on." I say in a sing-song voice that couldn't possibly belong to me, not after all the death I've seen. I go over to his window and open it, inhaling fresh air that I desperately need. Out in the distance, you can see some people from the Seam, and various volunteers from other districts, rebuilding shops and homes, throwing out the rubble and bodies that covered remnants of what once was. On a sudden whim, I enter Thorn's closet and pull down one of his spare sheets. I march with dignity to his television and drape the sheet over it, proudly, shielding his eyes if only for a second more. But not before I see just one of the Capitol's children get called up to the stage, and hear only the wind volunteer itself for the child. Somewhere in the crowd you can hear a muffled cry and a gun shot.

I try to turn brightly back to Thorn, but I can't. Visions of Rue fill my vision, and memories of when Peeta and I went on the victory tour. Our stop in District 11 was short, but enough for us to make their lives worse.

I try to smile it off, after all I've done I am not dumping this emotional trauma off on a five year old, when Thorn reaches up and wipes a tear from my face with his sleeve.

"It won't happen again." He says. I don't know if he's reprimanding me for crying, or have a prophetic moment, or saying I won't go in the Games again, or maybe that he won't comfort me again, or what, but it helps.

"Of course not, little buddy, get ready." With that note, I leave the room and reenter the kitchen, where Peeta has already left the extra loaf he always cooks.

I leave the house and enter a similar one near ours, not even bothering to knock. Without Hazelle cleaning, the sanitary of the place has rather gone downhill, but even through the stench and mess, I find him.

He's sitting at a table, staring an empty bottle down hard as though it may come to life and save him, or fill up again so he won't have to walk the couple steps to his supply. Probably the latter. I grab a plate from inside his cupboard without talking, vivaciously placing it down and humming as I cut up the loaf and put a kettle on the stove, filled with tea I found in a cabinet that hasn't been opened since I was last here, no doubt.

Haymitch Abernathy kept me alive in the Games, kept me going when all I wanted was to die. I try to return the favor now and then.

"You're back." He grunts at me, his sign of welcome. I nod my agreement, cutting with diligence.

"You can't get rid of me that easily, you know." The last time I was here, he vomited all over me, no doubt hung over. He slips in and out of sobriety, never staying for long. I try to bring him food when I can and good news like he did for me. It's gotten harder the nearer it's come to reaping today.

Although Peeta is the more good-natured of the two of us, he lets me make the trips to Haymitch. Haymitch and I pick each other up and keep each other alive. He has no one except for Peeta and I who even care about him.

When we introduced him to Rose and Thorn as their grandfather, it was expected but he swore off the bottle for a week. Peeta and I, even though he won't admit it, gave him purpose.

Now when everything is too dreary for someone to comfort me, I come here. The air never reeks of roses, only misery, and it seems just.

"Sorry about that. It's been... hard."

"No hard feelings. Eat up." I place the loaf in front of him with the cleanest cup I could find and the kettle of tea. I sit across from him, but only for a moment, Rose and Peeta will be worried about me.

"Today's the reaping." I like talking to Haymitch and saying exactly what's on my mind.

"You feel horrible because young children will be sacrificed, right? Just terrible."

"It's more than that. It's ... a bleak reality when my children are at home about to watch deaths. There's the underlying question... what if they have the same reaction the people of the Capitol did? How do I explain to them without making them hate me?" I lean forward, exasperated. I can't tell them why it's wrong without saddling them with a future they should be free of.

"You can't shield them, forever Katniss. You weren't shielded and you came out wonderful." His voice is dripping with sweet sarcasm, but I know there's some truth in that.

"I know. Peeta thinks we should be honest, open doors ready to answer any questions. I... I want to be able to answer any question, but I don't have the strength."

"You do, Katniss. You're going to be in history books pertaining to the second Dark Days. You're children will find out anyways, Peeta and yourself should be the ones to tell them." There is no sarcasm now, just direct truth. He didn't tell me whether the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games were right or wrong, only that no matter what, it's my responsibility to tell my children what happened. He's right.

"Do you... do you want to come over this afternoon? We have a guest room, you're aware?" Today's going to be hard for him, hard for all of us. The Capitol's children or not, their still children being sacrificed to the Games, still going to be murdered live on television. All of the sudden, I want him to be there.

Maybe the proper mourning comes not with responsibility but vengeance; maybe the children deserve to die.

As soon as I think it, I know it's wrong. Know that no matter how many people are slaughtered, Finnick will never come back. Nor will Prim or any of the victors that died or tributes that died or anyone. No matter what, they will lay resting in their graves, or floating in the wind, or living on in our hearts. But further Games will only cause more pain.

I'm suddenly furious with Gale. More so than before. He's the tamed house cat that declares himself a lion. What he wants isn't new or innovative; it's as old as time itself.

"I have a guest room too. Oh, and a toaster. Want to keep comparing needless luxuries?" I know he's upset about the reaping, his calendar no doubt thrown off by the countless swigging of alcohol entering and leaving his system, but still his words offend me.

"You can come over anytime." I shouldn't hold it against him; the reaping's upset me too. I head back to my house, and find the children and Peeta waiting for me to start breakfast. As soon as I enter, Rose exclaims,

"Yay! Pancakes!" She begins hungrily digging into what seems to be a mound of syrup and I'm vaguely surprised Peeta convinced them to wait for me. It's only when I'm seated and I look in his eyes I see the desperation. I can't tell what it's about until Thorn asks an innocent question in a dubious tone.

"Momma, who's Dahlia Pakinson?" I look in Peeta's eyes and see the answer, pasted so clearly I want to cry out. Instead, I swallow a mouthful of pancakes and say in the pleasantest tone I can manage,

"Who _is _Dahlia Pakinson?" and quietly, beneath the table and away from my children's prying eyes, grab Peeta's hands in my own.

"She was on the television, Mommy. Very pretty hair, like my dolly. Effie Trinket called her name in a loud, clear voice and welcomed her as a tri-tru-trub-tribu... a something to the Capitol. No one clapped. Why didn't they clap?" I'm surprised it's Rose who asks the question, but more so it's Peeta that answers. He does it nonchalantly and in his answer I find the strength I need more than anything, knowing that Peeta's along for the ride, right here beside me.

"Dahlia Pakinson is one of twenty-four tributes for the Hunger Games, sweetie. A tribute is someone the Capitol gives up who participates in the Hunger Games, which is where the twenty-four children use the arena as their surroundings and try... to stay... alive." I feel the cool hand of relief grip me, and am taken back to the interviews after our first Hunger Games, where Peeta answered all the questions for me, and helped me play the role I so needed to.

"I don't get it. Why do they have to try to stay alive? I'm doing it easily," she laughed, "Look mommy; I'm staying alive right now." She waves a hand in front of her face, giggling, watching herself move.

"Because people are trying to die them." It's a long sentence for Thorn, and he struggles, but eventually it's my five year old who says what no one else can, what Peeta and I don't have the strength to.

***Thanks for all the support, guys. (: I hope you enjoy this next installment. Please remember, however you feel about it, I would both love and appreciate any critique or comment you have to offer. Thanks for reading so far!* **


	3. Chapter 3

No one speaks for a long time. I'm fighting between reality and my nightmares, their dying bodies all around me. I keep sending soldier and soldier into war, their blood dripping down my hands before their even dead. Eventually, one of them speaks up.

"Why do I have to die if you're waiting for your own demise?" I drop the hand that's leading the way and try desperately to embrace reality. The cold, stony truth that isn't much better, but at least all of this is finally over.

I look in my daughter's scared face and brace myself before I tell her she's safe from all of it, but I'm stopped. Safe from it? Is that what the Capitol parents assured their children? That they were _safe_?

I want to spit the word out and guzzle this liquidated reality that is pouring all around me, but I can't. I need to play my part, and I know Peeta is here to help me.

Although Peeta is silently nodding and chewing, Rose is looking to me for confirmation. Haymitch's words ring out in my ears.

"_You're going to be in history books pertaining to the second Dark Days. Your children will find out anyways, Peeta and yourself should be the ones to tell them."_

It rings true, and I take a deep breath, because no matter what we tell them, our children will never know how gruesome the Games are until they're played right before their eyes. I know from experience.

"Yes. The children kill each other until there is only one participant remaining. This person is crowned victor, and in this version, with their being sent home comes wealth, food, and exemption from any further participation in the Hunger Games for their whole family. You and Thorn are safe from it forever. It's okay."

Thorn, whose moment of wisdom came from nowhere and hasn't been seen since, playfully screams,

"Safe forever!" Although it sickens me inside, I feel better than I ever did before. Rose bounds up from her chair, syrup dripping down her chin, and chases her brother out the doorway and into the Meadow. Peeta rises to go with them, but I stick a hand out. They're safe.

"Want to go watch the reaping?"

The question takes me by surprise. Of course I don't want to watch the reaping, would rather die, but I nod, at a loss for words.

We shuffle into the living room and cuddle together on one of the plush loveseats. One of the numerous reruns today is starting.

The rebel anthem blares and catches me by an unwanted surprise, so similar to the Capitol's. On a stage, I immediately catch sight of Effie Trinket's pumpkin orange wig amidst the lined off children.

Effie got nominated for the job because of both her part in the Capitol and rebellion. She felt neutral because she came in indirect contact with both of them, but didn't position herself on one side.

Effie Trinket was in charge of the reaping for the district 12 tributes, and was one of the only people who came in direct contact with me that wasn't slaughtered, aside from all the people who escaped to 13.

Usually, the reaping begins with the mayor reciting something about the Dark Days, but the rebels decided to skip most of the theatrics. Instead, she cuts right into calling up the tributes. Swiftly, without emotion.

I'm torn between watching and leaving the room. I don't want to be here, don't want to watch my cruel fate handed down to somebody else.

"Ladies first!" Effie calls out as she gracefully walks over to the glass ball that holds the ladies names. Usually, her unusual attire would stand out, but in the Capitol, she seemingly fits in.

"Yanka Olvin. Yanka Olvin?" She calls out to the crowd. Eventually we see a scrawny girl, probably 13 at most, making her way to the stage, tears already brimming down her cheeks, turning her lavender dress a dark and murky purple. Peeta pulls me out of the room because we both know I don't have the strength to make it by myself.

It tears me up inside to watch someone else condemned to the fate the rebellion was supposed to be fighting _against_. I reach out to Peeta and bury my face in his chest, warm and protective.

I feel the dim hope that maybe it's not real, maybe I'm not here. Of course, I'm _here_, but maybe I'm not Katniss Everdeen, alleged Mockingjay. Maybe I'm curled up in bed, dreaming what couldn't possibly be. In a couple of hours I'll go out to the woods and hunt with Gale, and the rising sun will lay claim to my nightmares.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am thirty-nine years old. I have two children with Peeta. Peeta and I were in the Hunger Games together. We both survived, but I'd rather I didn't. Even though we get our happily ever after, a momentous number of people died to make it happen. After I was put in the second Hunger Games, I was taken out and made aware of a rebellion. The rebellion was in District 13, or moreover _was _District 13. They made me their Mockingjay, a symbol of hope that started with Madge, who died. She gave me what became my token, a pin with a Mockingjay in the center. This pin became the symbol of the rebellion, I took on its very image as my own to bring hope to the districts..._

The list gets longer, but it's not effective. I still believe and hope that it's not real.

"Katniss, we did well. You shouldn't beat yourself up over the facts, you can't change them. None of us can." He murmurs the words in my ears, and I know that I'm asking too much of the boy with the bread. I hold on to him for as long as he lets me, knowing I'm being selfish and that he needs support to. I cling to him for the life that I've thrown away, even though so many people died to ensure I lived through it all.

I'm throwing it all away.

Throwing it away like they are the bodies of people I loved, who loved, who were. Their realities were taken by the cruel hand of war, thrown and disregarded. I'm throwing away the very thing they died for. It's the appropriate moment to take out the book, we both know it. But neither of us moves. We sit cuddling for hours, until he nuzzles my cheek and goes to make lunch while I check on the children.

I debate with myself on whether or not to check on Haymitch, but he'll be fine. Drowning his sorrows with ale and anything you can buy cheap.

The walk to the Meadow is as pleasant as it can get nowadays. The stench of stale vomit and decaying bodies still fill the air, but it's become a morbid fact of life. My children prance through it happily, and if they can stomach it, surely I can.

Up ahead I see carts being wheeled and take a deep breath before I wonder who I just swallowed. It could've been Madge, or Peeta's family, or... I can't go on like this.

Luckily, they wheel them out of sight, and I'm left with myself. Below the tops of the trees, I can see Thorn running on chubby legs after Rose, on much skinnier ones. They're emitting happy squeaks and I feel reassured, as though I actually thought a Peacekeeper was coming after them.

On a sudden whim, I veer to the left and easily slide under the remnants of the fence. I ease my bow and arrows out of the hollow of a tree, and do what I do best.

It takes me a while to find the place, memories wore it down and emotion tints it with blunt colors. Eventually, I do. I settle on the rock and overlook what I can basically call from memory.

It takes time for me to realize what's real and what's not. When I finally come round, not much time has past but it feels like forever. Tears pour down my face and I realize, Gale's not coming back.

I thought, I hoped really, he would. I begged and pleaded with whatever celestial being that was present in the sky, that he would appear and I wouldn't need a how or a why and neither would he, but no. I'm sitting on a rock in the middle of nowhere, crying my eyes out with my children in the distance. My _safe _children.

I thank whoever I can for that.

I brush myself off and realize the best treatment is to face facts. I don't need to repeat my name until it's in straight, what I need, more than anything, is for it not to be real. But it is, and part of me's glad.

Not because of the people who died, who I thank countless times each night, but because of Peeta, because of Rose, because of Thorn; because of Haymitch. They gave me all I needed and it took me forever to truly love each and every one of them, but I do.

Peeta waited the longest.

Even after it was all over, it never was. It still isn't. This is why I need to be the mother mine never was, I need to help them through it and help Peeta. Like he's been helping me all along.

I walk to the edge of the woods and stow the bow and arrows back where they belong. I run one hand across the bow a last time, amazed at the ability of my father's hands. My children hear my footsteps before they see me.

They both come running, but Rose is faster, energized with enthusiasm and syrup. I catch her in my arms and spin her, holding on to what is one of my only joys. I grab Thorn with one hand, and bend down to his level.

"Did you find the dragon, Thorn?"

It's a running joke between Peeta and me that there is a magical dragon that grants wishes in the woods. At first, Thorn was terrified to go in, and Peeta knew how much the woods meant to me. They practically supported my family after my father's death, and they were my sanctuary with Gale. It tore me up that I wouldn't get to share the happiness I felt in there with him, so Peeta invented the dragon who eventually, bit by bit, enticed Thorn to the woods. He's still searching for him after a year.

"No, but one day, Mom. One day I'm going to surprise him and he'll _have _to grant me wishes." He nods eagerly and I embrace him, smothering his splattering of happy chirps with my shirt.

Rose runs ahead, with inherited athleticism, and Thorn, who's now exhausted, rides on my back on our way back to the Victor's Village. We're met outside our door by Haymitch, with an apologetic expression and a grimace.

I open the door and allow him in, true to my word but annoyed at his silence. He thinks it's only hard for him, not knowing the very day has brought terror that inhabits my body and consumes me.

As soon as I enter, I smell cheese biscuits, and lamb stew with rice. Roses coat the smell, but I will hold on to my sanity. President Snow is long dead, I know this. Yet his presence seems to linger in the air tonight.

Rose and Thorn run ahead, eager to eat after a morning of play. I casually stroll into the kitchen, knowing what's coming, and even more sure that it can wait.

Everything can wait.

The one person I want right now is the one person who can make it all better, the one who chases the storms away.

I enter the kitchen and kiss Peeta fiercely. The Hunger Games can wait.


End file.
